


The Tarot Cards Say It’s Not So Bad

by okaymosshead



Category: One Piece
Genre: Fluff, Get together fic, M/M, TW: Alcohol Consumption, bad summary I’m sorry but it’s good I promise, essentially zoro pines for sanji the whole time, hurt/comfort near the end, mentions of sanjis mom bc I love her, this whole fic is really just Sanji singing, tw: injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24140113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okaymosshead/pseuds/okaymosshead
Summary: zoro had never heard something so hauntingly beautiful before, and of course it had to come from sanji. (or, alternatively, zoro keeps walking in on sanji singing and his heart hurts—for better or for worse, he can’t decide.)
Relationships: Roronoa Zoro/Sanji
Comments: 11
Kudos: 161





	The Tarot Cards Say It’s Not So Bad

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys!! thank you for checking out my lil story :) I’ve had this one working for awhile now, and finally got the motivation to finish it. I’ve always headcannoned that Sora taught Sanji songs in the old North language and he still remembers them and sings them from time to time. hope you enjoy!!

Zoro had never believed in God. He considered himself a rational man, always had been. His pilgrimage across the Grand Line with the likes of those with rubber skin, tufts of fur, literal bones, and anything and everything in between may appear as outlandish as they come—but come on, you can’t choose your family. Well, he may not have chosen them and they had not chosen him, but they had certainly chosen each other and their bond was one that had become as rational and defined as the fact that the sky above was blue and the waves below were deep. 

So, no, he was still a rational man. Definitely more so than many he had met on his journeys thus far. Didn’t matter how often his feet found themselves trekking the wrong path (through no fault of his own, mind you), it didn’t matter how many important events he accidentally napped through, and it definitely didn’t matter how often anyone called him a walking ball of moss. 

And yet—

Well. 

Maybe there was some higher power up there. Sure he had walked among the clouds but who knew how far the sky above stretched? Was there some end to it? Some sort of ceiling that capped off the world, securing it in a neat package? Perhaps there was a tied bow affixed to the top of it, a neat gift where whatever could possibly lie outside of the universe. Or did the world expand? Growing on and on for eons; the universe free to stretch much like Luffy’s arms out to sea, some sort of freedom existing in it’s never-ending expansion. 

He would never know for certain. The business of the universe was not his, but that did not stop him from wondering from time to time. And, well, if there was no God, surely angels must exist, right? At least, now he was almost convinced. And it was all that stupid cook’s fault.

Really, he wasn’t sure how he’d never noticed before. Normally the most observant of them all, perhaps aside from Robin with her all-seeing eyes (and come on, it wasn’t fair, he only had one after all) there was no way he hadn’t noticed until now. Perhaps his body had adapted to tune out the cook, a sort of self-preservation technique against all things that irritated him and dug beneath his skin. 

However, he’d begun to notice subtle changes in their relationship lately. Time apart had certainly given them a chance to grow out of teenage angst that fueled their biggest fights,and instead funneled their unhealthy emotional outbursts into some other outlets (or perhaps they’d learned to bury them down deep inside like other traumatized adults). Whatever the matter, he couldn’t help but notice the softness in the cook’s deep blue eyes (and weren’t they just like the sky above him?), or the special care he had taken into when preparing his food (how had he known exactly which vegetables he liked in his rice?), or even the way the sunlight ray’s streamed through the galley window and filtered softly through Sanji’s golden hair, his fingers itching to run through the strands in sync with the rolling waves beneath him— 

Okay, so he was getting ahead of himself. And while usually these were feelings he could suppress until his brain forgot they existed entirely, the stupid cook had to go and ruin it all. He just had to go and open that fucking mouth of his. And wasn’t that just Zoro’s luck? Of course he would happen to be passing by the kitchen the day Sanji had decided to softly sing to the empty room. And of course he had to stop and listen. Of course his heart and brain ceased working in tandem, his entire being short circuiting and then rebooting all in one swift motion that forced him to lean against the wall and strain to listen. But he was fine, really. It’s just, well——

Sanji had the most beautiful voice he had ever heard.

So can you really blame him for believing in angels? Despite the cliche, he really had never witnessed something that had caught his breath in his throat before. He wasn’t even sure what the song was, the words jumbled together in his brain in a dialect and language he could not decipher. The soft notes sung in the cook’s low scratchy voice rested upon his chest and the gentle ache behind the words transcended any language barrier, the corners of his eyes slightly watering at the fact (not that he’d ever admit it, not even to himself). So, Zoro leaned against the wall, one ear close to the window left slightly ajar, the notes drifting out like a cool breeze until they slowly fell to silence. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed, trying to commit the words to memory. But when Sanji emerged from the kitchen with a kick to the shin and a demand to get inside before dinner got cold, well, he really had no complaints.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was almost humiliating how desperately Zoro longed for Sanji to sing for him again. He’d found himself quieting down when Sanji passed, hoping to catch even the slightest hum from him. After dinner he’d consistently volunteer to help with the dishes (praying, hoping, Sanji would sing like he did that day) until Sanji got sick of him, forcing him to leave so someone else could have a turn (moss can only absorb so much water, goddamn marimo). Zoro tried to train his need away, praying that the sweat would wash off the stink of desperation clouding around him to no avail. He trained until his aching muscles began to hurt just a bit more than his aching heart. 

Convincing himself that he’d need a shower before he could let sleep overtake him, he’d wandered over to the room the boys cleaned themselves up in. Normally he would not frequent the wash room as often, but Sanji had made some comment the other day that even moss could clean up nicely, and, well, he was ever eager to please (really, who even was he anymore?). The soap he had caught Sanji eyeing at the market smelled of sandalwood and vanilla (and was on sale, he noted when he found his way back hours later without Sanji—and perhaps Nami’s help), and he found himself growing to like the scent (and the subtle deep breathes Sanji would take around him, their shoulders almost touching in a bolt of electricity that he felt down to his toes—but that is neither here nor there). Either way, he had grown to enjoy smelling decent, and who knew that soap and water could lessen the amount of cuts that get infected? Maybe Chopper was on to something, but really he couldn’t be sure.

He had grabbed a small towel from underneath his hammock, trudging to the bathroom as he tried for the umpteenth time to put meaning to words he had never heard before. Zoro had a fleeting memory of Sanji mentioning his North Blue heritage, but he had never heard much of the language aside from a few phrases here and there, some words that Sanji would utter under his breath, or a few accented terms that escaped from him when he was most exasperated (typically directed towards Zoro, who would then precede to make fun of his Northern accent, only making Sanji more belligerent, his accent strengthening with rage, and wow wasn’t it the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard?). The lyrics in the song flowed together far too much for him to pick out any one word. Perhaps he’d have to ask Robin if her library contained any translated dictionaries. (And if later that night he found a North Blue histories and languages book tucked under his pillow—well, Robin never said much about it.)

For just a moment, he was so enraptured by his thoughts that he had just put a hand to the door handle, about to flick his wrist to turn the knob, when his heart alerted his brain to the sound coming from the wash room. He froze. 

It was the same song, only this time accented by falling water and muffled sounds of scrubbing. He closed his eyes and once again found himself leaning towards the wall as he felt his entire being soak up the song. Zoro could just imagine Sanji singing to him, maybe it was raining and they were walking together, and maybe he’d just let his hand slip into the cook’s, no regard for what anyone else had to say. Maybe he would think those things, and maybe he was pining, yes, but is that really anyone’s business? 

Normally he would just burst in the bathroom, regards for privacy long forgotten when you lived on the ocean in close quarters with your crew for long periods of time. His shower schedule never really coincided with Sanji’s often, but he had also never paid mind to the cook before. He could just imagine him in there, all of his long legs and long arms and sturdy hands and his hair wet and stuck to the sides of his face. Maybe Zoro imagined such things, and perhaps he pleaded with his brain to free him from this cruel suffering, but that is neither here nor there.

Anyway.

Instead of walking in, Zoro chose to stand stock still against the wall (or, rather, his brain froze and his legs ceased to move in lack of instruction), his shoulders relaxing from the rhythm of notes far more than even the hottest water could do for him. He was so entranced he didn’t even notice Usopp pass him by. Oh right—that whole no privacy on a pirate ship thing. Even one as big as the Sunny couldn’t have too many hiding places. Speaking of, was his face melting? The sun must have been brutal because his cheeks had felt like magma. 

“Zoro? Uh...everything okay?” the sniper asked, snapping the trance Zoro had been lulled into. Was he gonna kill the guy? Maybe. Well, just a little anyway.

Despite his best efforts he could feel his cheeks heat up even more and cursed inwardly as the blush spread across his face in an inferno. Zoro silently thanked himself for the tan skin he was born with that did its best to mute the beet red across his face (and then he imagined a similar state in Sanji’s much paler skin, and well, you can guess how such a train of thought made things much, much, worse). He found himself unable to give an intelligible answer and instead sputtered until he could give Usopp a reply that didn’t make it look like he had just sprouted two more heads and nine sword-styled himself into the bottom of the sea.

“It’s....uh...sword stuff.”

Usopp blinked. “Sword...stuff?”

“I, well, I have swords. I do swords. Sword stuff, you know?”

Usopp stepped back a little, his eyebrows raised in concern. “Uh....okay, Zoro? Hope your sword stuff goes well? I’ll get back to my sniper stuff too, I guess,” he replied, still utterly confused. The ways of moss were impossible to understand or comprehend. They were another species after all.

By the time Usopp left, unable to draw any other answer from him, the singing had stopped (along with the beating of Zoro’s aching heart). He remained at the doorway, towel still clenched in hand, and if he was upset at all at the sight of Sanji leaving the washroom with a towel around his waist and his bangs clipped back, well, he most certainly didn’t show it. (However, he did receive a kick to the face for asking Sanji if he loved numbers so much he decided to give himself 6’s for eyebrows. And it made his heart soar).

-.-.-.-.-.-

Weeks after what he had now dubbed the Shower Incident, Zoro had found himself spending more and more time with Sanji (and surprisingly enough, he was begging to reciprocate.) Honestly, their relationship was improving at a rate that nearly terrified him. Zoro had gone from not being able to be in the same room as the cook without the both of them spontaneously combusting, to (for the most part) tolerating the man, to genuinely enjoying his company. He found himself seeking out the cook before dinner, sitting down at the table polishing his swords and making light conversation that only involved half-hearted jabs at each other. He would often volunteer to be the “designated pack mule” when Sanji wanted to grocery shop, content to listen to his ramblings of new cooking ideas and what herbs pair best with what. Something about existing in the same space as him was so calming, and while the fights would never stop, he looked forward to the storm as equally as its eye. (And if some nights while he sat on watch duty Sanji came upstairs with a bottle of sake, his favorite rice balls, and most importantly his company, pledging to stay awake because he’s “so sure Zoro could never handle a full night’s watch” only to fall asleep slumped against his shoulder—well, Zoro tried his best not to overthink it—but he’d never forget.)

—-Anyway.

His new relationship (?) with Sanji had made group activities much more interesting (and yet, simultaneously more frustrating). So, you can only imagine how he felt on the annual, biweekly Strawhat - Let’s All Drink Until We Pass Out (except you, Chopper) Celebration Extravaganza.  
It was a tradition he looked forward to, much rarer nowadays the busier they were, however a lull in marine chases and sea emperor battles gave them plenty of time to get together for a typical Strawhat celebration. And, well, the thought of getting drunk with Sanji made his face heat up far more the alcohol ever could.

Before they all sat down to drink on the Sunny’s lawn, they first sat together for a family meal, another tradition that they never broke unless absolutely necessary. He had never grown up gathered around a table with a family, candle light illuminating his face as they passed dishes around to spoon upon their plates with earnest. Instead, he had spent meal times as a child quickly scarfing down bowls of rice so he could get back to training. His crew approached dinners without the typical fashion as well, rubber arms slinging across tables, reindeers sat between a cyborg and other various wanted criminals, happily chewing on cotton candy spirals, a lanky skeleton quite literally singing his praises of the meal before him, tears in his empty eye sockets—it was really an abnormal sight, but one that brought him comfort nonetheless. As per usual (and oh, what a love language to behold), Zoro and Sanji spent the meal pretending—Sanji, pretending to serve him the leftover trash (when really the dish was made just for him, tasted just like a home he couldn’t remember), Zoro, pretending to scowl at his food, throwing it in his mouth as messily as humanly possible (and yet he ate every bite, every crumb, savored it because each meal tasted better than the last). They’d argue across the table until Nami would shut the both of them up, and the warmth in his chest would spread to his whole body, aflame with what one could only consider how it felt to be truly, completely, alive. As soon as every last crumb of food was gone, they settled out to the lawn to begin a night of drinking, dancing, and familiarity of having a true and honest family. 

After a few rounds of Brook playing a song for them, Usopp teaching Chopper a new dance, the sound of his hooves clicking against the fine wood of the Sunny, and Luffy swinging his rubber arms around with a wide grin, Nami officially announced a drinking competition. 

“So, just stick your berries in the middle, and whoever drinks the most and sticks it out the longest gets it all. Plus a small collection fee, of course,” she said with a sly wink, neglecting to put any money in herself.

Sanji proudly proclaimed that this was the day he’d drink more than the marimo, twice as much even. And from that point, it was on.

Zoro had never been much of a lightweight. His lips had found their home pressed against a mug years ago, it was merely a pastime for him now. Some of his other crewmates however, lacked the same alcohol tolerance. Usopp would begin to laugh hysterically a few drinks in, unable to lie his way through his own stories as he chuckled between every other word. Franky, for some reason, seemed to be a completely different person when he drank, however he had taken to just mixing some cola in and taking it from there. Zoro had even seen Brook’s cheekbones turn beet red after chugging down a few glasses, which he was mostly sure was scientifically impossible. Maybe. Can’t be too sure with that one. But the cook? He was another story entirely.

As much as Sanji loved to brag about his extensive knowledge of fine aged wines (and really what made it so much better than beer? The fancy bottle? But Zoro digressed), the guy sure did struggle to hold his alcohol. He typically refrained from the heavy drinking Zoro and Nami found themselves boots deep in, but every now and again he’d resolve to drink just as much as Zoro—and fail every time. (And of course, this time was no different.)

As the night passed on, his nakama slowly said their goodbyes, some heading off to bed, others growing bored of sitting around and drinking, and others heading off to do some chores/go on watch. Eventually, only Zoro and Sanji remained. (And somewhere deep inside his chest Zoro longed to release his drunken reverie, sing his love and praises for the man sitting across from him—-but luckily for him he was sober enough to save himself, just maybe.) As Zoro continued to throw bottle after bottle back, as did Sanji, and he felt everything around them melt into a warm haze, his limbs growing slower yet simultaneously more loose. He could tell Sanji was feeling the same, their conversation diving off the edge of coherency and into the muddled waters of drunken ramblings and laughter. The shadows within his field of vision danced freely, moving in sync with the waves in a rhythmic sway. He found himself opening his mouth and saying whatever his mind felt needed to be shared, like a gaping fish surfacing to land. He had never felt so free, even here, in the middle of the ocean on a pirate ship. (Who would have thought?)

By now, Sanji had begun drunkenly leaning into him, laughing to himself as he fell onto Zoro’s shoulder. His hair brushed against the exposed portions of his neck and Zoro fought the urge to shiver. He was just so...close. Intoxicatingly so. He could practically feel the electricity buzzing in the forefront of his mind, expanding out down his spinal cord, and then down to his feet. The cool air that filtered across the Sunny did nothing to calm him down, nor did the crashing of the waves against her hull. Sanji laid his head squarely upon his shoulder, cozying up into his neck and muttering incoherently to himself as if he were his pillow. 

Zoro laughed, “you alright there, cook?” (And wasn’t he so very brave? - Usopp would be proud.)

Sanji grasped his bicep in response, his nails digging in slightly to his skin. He had half a mind to slap him away, but the other half stayed still as he played with his arm, seemingly fascinated in his drunken state. With his other hand, Sanji lightly traced the veins that laced Zoro’s forearm. They had never been so close in such a gentle sense.

“Mmm...listen here mossy ol’...Zoro...I, listen, I know what you’re thinking. You think just because I am, you know, this way, that I lost our little contest. You’d be right. No. Shit. I mean, you’re right to be wrong. You’re wrong? I just—no. Okay I’m winning. Your arm is very soft,” Sanji rambled incoherently, his eyes drifting to look up at the stars that dotted the sky above them. He never let go of Zoro’s arm. (And oh to be so close? To be so in the moment authentically and engaged in such a way? His heart clutched within his chest, his blood vessels beneath his soft hands curled around him arm tightened, and this is what it felt like to be in love? Would he dare to say the word?)

At this point Zoro couldn’t contain any of his laughter, his feelings simultaneously soaked up and wrung out to dry like a wet sponge. The moonlight shone down upon them, the rays highlighting the darkening pink shades that fell across Sanji’s cheeks as he continued to drink from the nearly empty bottle in his hand. The shadows underneath his face seemed to dance in the light, and Zoro almost put his hand under his chin to lift up his head, wanting to cradle him, lift him further into the moonlight. Almost, anyways.

“And what are you gonna do about that?” Zoro asked, biting his lip in an attempt to stop his aching hands from reaching out and brushing away the red dusting upon his crew-mate’s brow. (And who could have painted the pink across his cheeks? The shine in his blue eyes? The gold in his hair?) Sanji was impossibly close now, and he could feel the heat of his breath on his neck and could smell the bittersweet drink with every exhale. It was intoxicating, and suddenly the effects of the alcohol in his system seemed like nothing in comparison to the simple closeness of their crew’s cook. His endorphins were running on overdrive, and at this moment he knew he was absolutely screwed.

With a slightly delayed response time, Sanji sat up, his hand still clutching Zoro’s arm. He rubbed it slightly, as though he were freeing a genie, and with his other hand he readjusted his hair to fall perfectly against his other eye (oh, and how he longed to run his hands through his bangs, and lift them up from his brow and kiss his forehead and—). For a minute he was still quiet, and Zoro was sure he had drifted off to sleep in his arms, the swaying of the ship having rocked him to sleep like a child. Finally, Sanji spoke, in a voice so clear it struck through him like lightning. 

“Can I—can I sing for you? It’s so quiet without Brook here to play music and I—“

“Yes.”

“ I, uh, yes you can if you want, please, I mean, well. I don’t mind,” Zoro clarified as quickly as humanly possible. His heart was bursting within his rib cage. The thought of Sanji singing, singing for him of all people, it almost hurt him to think about. Almost.

“What would you like to hear?” Sanji asked, looking at him thoughtfully. Zoro could see himself in his blue eyes, the sea, his home, reflected back at him. He gulped.

“Whatever matters most to you.”

Sanji sat there for a moment, his head dipping slightly, the alcohol still coursing through his system. His chin dig into Zoro’s chest slightly, his eyelashes fluttering against his collarbone.

“Well, there’s this song, that well, my mother, she used to sing to me—before she died, anyway—and I know it’s like, you know, kinda dumb? To hold on, you know, but like it’s just, it means something. To remember. To still let her live through this dumb song. I can’t even tell you what the goddamn thing is about—I only know half of the words. Not even sure if I’m pronouncing them right, the old North language is fucking hard and I—“ 

“No, it’s perfect. I don’t give a shit, don’t know what the words would mean anyway. I’d love to hear it,” Zoro breathed out. (And were his hands shaking, of all things? No—but the globe had to have tilted or something, the axis detrimentally off balance.) Sanji cleared his throat into his shoulder. He could almost swear he felt his lips against his arm, and resisted the bodily urge to melt upon the spot, lest his very being get soaked into the ship’s wooden deck.

Finally, Sanji began to sing for him, the same song he had heard in the kitchen and in the shower. The words came out more jumbled than usual, a drunken slur attached to the end, the melody slightly off, some parts skipped due to lapses in his memory. But it was incredible. Sanji was singing just for him. In his mind somewhere he slapped himself mentally for daring to think he didn’t deserve it. 

Zoro became enraptured in the song, the words, despite lacking a meaning to him, seeming to make his beating heart ache with each syllable, each note sending a jolt through his body. Without warning, his hand reached out and brushed through Sanji’s bangs, his hair as soft as he’d imagined. (Oh to be the first to discover gold, to marvel in its beauty and appreciate its strength). Surprisingly, Sanji didn’t pull away. He continued to sing for him, until his eyelids became progressively heavier, a curtain drawing upon his stage. He would have weeped inside had it not been for the fact that Sanji’s head would come to lay to rest upon his shoulder. Eventually his song tampered off with the wind it’s final gusts small, yet meaningful, his head rolling slightly into Zoro’s chest. Small puffs of air fell upon his face, warm and sticky with sweet alcohol. His hair tickled his bare shoulder ever so slightly. 

And Zoro fell asleep just in time to whisper to him, a small thank you for the intimate moment shared only between them and the stars glittering above. While the moon would eventually grow jealous of their slumber and fall with them, come morning the two would be found laying together asleep in the sun. (And if any of the strawhats noticed the two sleeping together, slumped against one another, they didn’t mention it—yet their knowing glances meant something else entirely.)

-.-.-.-.-.-

Things weren’t supposed to turn out this way. If that fucking idiot had minded his own business, then he wouldn’t be in this mess (he wouldn’t be so afraid, so scared of the fragility of human life.) And since when did Zoro go and get so heavy? It wasn’t nearly as easy to carry him from the battlefield, blood dripping from his chest, his thighs burning in tandem with his lungs as he ran to Chopper.

Everything had begun as normal in typical Straw hat fashion. You know, the whole getting corned by Marines, launching the Sunny into the air only to escape into an enclosure of battleships. It should have been simple, as far as the ongoing war with the world government went. 

But he had slipped up. Had been so enraptured in his thoughts and self sense of justice that he hadn’t even noticed the bullet headed for his heart. 

But Zoro had.

And really, the asshole had to go and take a bullet to the chest for him, reopening a wound he had gotten a week ago. Sanji wanted to strangle the shit out of him, if the marimo wasn’t already on death’s door. The bastard had even gone and said a great final few words as he fell to the ground, a simple “Got your back there Sanji, can’t lose our cook now can we?”

It was pissing him off, really it was. He could barely see through all the smoke as he ran back to the Sunny, kicking marines left and right and leaping from ship to ship (as gently as he could, cradling Zoro’s head with one hand, hoping to take the brunt of the impact of each jump so the swordsman wouldn’t feel it). Seriously, why was it so hard to see? (And the tears in his eyes refused to cease, and he begged his brain to only let them fall because of the smoke—certainly nothing to do with Zoro. No.)

Sanji hated the guy, he really did. He hated him for forcing his way into his life, for making him slowly grow warm to him, a gas burner flickering on until it grew to full flame, a heat unmatched. Sanji hated him for the times he fell asleep in the kitchen, and he’d tenderly put a blanket over his sleeping form and his face would turn red until he laid his cheeks upon the freezer. He hated how the asshole would come back from islands with fruits he had found, how he’d leave it on the countertop for him to experiment with. He hated the nights he’d lay awake in bed, thoughts of the sleeping man in the bed next to his plagued his thoughts, how he longed to reach over and grab his wrist the hung off the side of the bed frame. He especially hated how for awhile now, (and perhaps forever) he was growing to like Zoro. (And perhaps something much more, a feeling he would push down inside of him until it leaked out of his very being.)

Despite all of this, he hated the guy even more now. The fact that he had ever thought that Sanji’s life was worth so much more than his own, that he thought he could sacrifice himself solely for him this time, for no one else. It made his blood boil. (And yet the tears kept falling, and he could have sworn his hands trembled until he found Chopper and the two made it to the infirmary while Luffy and the others successfully made their escape. He’d never tell, though. At least not for long.)

-.-.-.-.-.

When Zoro finally woke up, his head was pounding, his skull practically shaking. His chest burned and his lungs ached. And yet, he felt warm, his head sinking back into the pillow as the rest of his senses tried to catch up with his slowly opening eyes. And when they did—his heart nearly stopped. (Sorry, Chopper, you tried your best buddy.)

Next to him in one of Chopper’s little chairs, Sanji sat next to him, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. The cook looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes shone like bruises, his knees pressed against his chest in the tiny plastic seat. He was rubbing small circles into Zoro’s hand, tracing the lines that spanned his palms.  
But this was not the fact that shocked him—no, not at all.

What was really so surprising, was that Sanji was singing for him. An even softer version of the song he learned from his mother, sung low and sweet, more of a lullaby than anything. Zoro wished he could say something to him, yet his mouth was dry, and the light pouring in from the window stung on his tired eyes. He was about to drift off again when he heard the man speak.

“Zoro...I’m so sorry. I never needed you to do that for me,” he whispered, still tracing his palms rhythmically. “I never want you to do that shit again, okay? I can’t...I just can’t bear to lose you. How do you think I’d feel? If you were gone? What would the point be anymore? I wouldn’t even want to find All Blue if it wasn’t on this ship with you—you just, you matter, Zoro. To me. More than you’ll ever be able to get through that thick skull of yours.”

“Sanji....,” he felt his mouth open without consulting anyone.

The man in question jumped slightly, relief washing over his features when he realized Zoro was awake, was beginning to do much better.

“Listen here, asshole. You matter just as much as me. Even more so. You can’t tell me that I won’t understand when I...when I’ve....,” Zoro began, struggling for air, yet confident in his words that only a near-death experience could get a man to reveal.

“I love you you fucking idiot. I have for awhile now, and I just—there’s no way in hell I’d let anything happen to you that I couldn’t stop, that I couldn’t save, I just—“ he continued, but then was stopped when Sanji pressed his lips to his before pulling apart to speak again. 

“Fuck you. Seriously, fuck you Zoro. I, I just—I love you too, okay you asshole? How dare you confess that to me, and how dare you confess to me here in the infirmary of all places?” 

“Do I look like I want to be here right now? You’re such a—-wait, what did you say?”

“I love you too, you bastard. I, uh, have for a little while now, just been having to think okay?”

They both burst out laughing. Of course things would turn out this way for them of all people, of all places, out here on the sea together.

After their laughter subsided (and painfully so for Zoro), Sanji finally spoke up, his hand still clutching Zoro’s. 

“So...are we...you know?”

“We can be, I mean, if you’re comfortable.”

“I think I am. You make me comfortable. Is that cheesy?”

“Yes. Completely. Just like your dumb face and the stupid suits you wear and your dumb fancy wines (I love you and I love you and I love you I—)”

“Oi! You’re such a shithead Zoro. Why on Earth have I been forced to fall for such a dumb ball of moss?” (And I love you too and I will and I will and I will, I’ll—“

Zoro shifted slightly in bed, the wet cloth Sanji had placed upon his forehead having fallen to the side of the pillow, making the side damp and cool. He felt his eyes drift once again, all of his emotions having tumbled out of him and slowly stuffed back inside. He was exhausted.

“I think I’m gonna sleep again, okay?”

“And I’m supposed to be surprised by this because...?”

Zoro swatted his hand away playfully, as the sleep began to overtake him more and more. Before he shut out completely he stuck his hand out.

“Hey would you mind singing that song for me again? It’s my favorite,” he asked before he even realized.

Sanji looked almost surprised, having barely remembered drunkenly singing it to Zoro weeks ago. 

“Of course I can. Always. Maybe I’ll even teach you the words some day, mosshead.”

Zoro mumbled an incoherent response, the first softly sung notes putting him to sleep immediately. (And his lungs may have filled with water, and he was drowning but his heart was set aflame and he felt so loved, so apart of something, so secure, and he could sleep without worrying the gentle lull of it all putting him out. And if hours later Chopper walked in to the two asleep holding hands, well, he probably owed Nami and Usopp $20 for losing the bet, a few months off. But he’d smile and drape a blanket over Sanji after he’d checked on Zoro, happy to see all was falling into place.)


End file.
